


Significant Solitude

by cincoflex



Series: Casa Caliente [6]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 23:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16649626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: When Sara is called away for a family emergency, Grissom tries to cope.





	1. Chapter 1

Casa Caliente 4: Significant Solitude

Chapter One

Grissom climbed out of the Tahoe and stood looking at the bungalow with a frown creasing his brow. The early light of a hot dawn lit the roof of the house, turning the terracotta tiles there a burnt orange. He squared his shoulders and walked forward, his reluctant steps indicating he was in no hurry to mount the porch steps.

Keys jingled in his hand; he carried a bakery bag in the other.

Slowly, he unlocked the door, taking a moment to stroke the cool wood surface before slipping inside the quiet room beyond it. Ridiculously, the urge to shout ‘Honey, I’m home!’ rose in his throat and he shook his head at his own bizarre sense of whimsy. Home it might be, but no one here would hear him playact.

He dropped the keys and bag on the coffee table and wearily plonked down on the sofa facing the fireplace, feeling every one of his years this morning. Slowly Grissom rubbed his face, giving in to the fatigue washing over him. It felt good to sit. It felt good to sit HERE, in the precious privacy of this house and let go of the stiffness holding him together. Bit by bit he relaxed, slumping back, letting the thoughts he’d been holding back come forth, along with the feelings around them.

The phone call had come right in the middle of the briefing, interrupting them all. Sara had smiled apologetically before answering it.

Fear.

Concern.

Frustration.

Not for himself, but for Sara. God he hated seeing her upset, trying to remain calm in front of everyone. The hardest thing in the world was to let everyone else comfort her with shoulder pats and arm strokes, knowing all he really wanted to do himself was reel her in and hold her close. But he was Grissom, the boss, and by reputation NOT touchy-feely.

Screw that. The entire drive to the airport he hadn’t let go of her cold hand except to get in and out of the car. She gripped him back when she reflected about it, but Grissom knew her thoughts were already miles away, in a hospital in California. Before he put her on the plane he’d huddled her into an alcove and wrapped himself around her.

Even now he wasn’t sure if that had been for her benefit, or his.

She’d nearly lost it then, molding tightly to him, her cat bones and light frame shaking as denied fear shivered through her. He hushed and soothed and held and fought arousal in that urgent need to simply comfort. Sara’s words were jumbled and choked in tears, but her body softened to his, drinking in the offered warmth gratefully; by the time the boarding call came she was quiet and ready.

Like bamboo, that was Sara. Exotic, tall, graceful, but tougher than the buffeting winds of fate. Amused at his own turn of phrase, Grissom gave a self-deprecating smile and stretched out on the sofa. Before giving in to sleep he looked up at the Yin Yang.

It was vertical again, and he chuckled.

*** *** ***

_He was lost, which never happened, not in these halls. He KNEW these halls, had walked them for well over a decade now. Looking around Grissom tried to peer through the glass layers and spot someone or something familiar, but nothing made sense. Vague instruments of analysis; his technology of deduction sat all around in a fuzzy edged reality._

_Looking up he tried to orient himself, keeping to the left, wandering with a growing sense of unease. Not scared, no, but definitely off-balance. He stumbled._

_On the floor at his feet lay a green smashed coffee mug. Grissom noted the splatter pattern of the contents seemed odd, almost like words. As he stared, the coffee trickles thickened and shifted from brown to crimson, the splashes and streams forming a strange calligraphy. It wasn’t coffee any more. The harder he stared, the more frustrating the swirling blood stains became._

_“They’re going to figure it out, Gilbert dear. Be ready.”_

_He looked up into the face of Portia Richmond. She stood serenely in the hall in full red and gold showgirl regalia, elegant, tall, looking as if she’d just stepped out of her portrait. Blinking, he nodded._

_“I know. I thought you were dead.”_

_She shrugged, winking. He looked again; she was gone. Grissom stared down and the coffeeblood was running down the hall. Panic gripped his chest and he began to run, moving in the direction of the flow._

He woke up, shuddering a little, disoriented as he stared at the living room ceiling. For a moment, Grissom held very still, trying to recapture the dream. He’d read enough about dreams to know there was some symbolism to them of course, so he concentrated.

Portia Richardson, he guessed, was his mental representative of Las Vegas herself—slightly dated but still majestic and seductive. He smiled briefly, amused at his choice and turned back to the other features in the dream. He knew the lab symbolized more than just the workplace, and the coffee mug and its contents stood for more than just nourishment, but putting them into some recognizable gist seemed difficult.

Being lost in the lab probably meant confusion, disruption. Sara’s phone call came to mind and he nodded to himself grimly, acknowledging the connection. The coffee mug and blood though—

_Inconclusive. Not enough evidence_ , his mind told him.

 

He got up, stretching slightly, and his gaze fell on the bakery bag. Slowly he pulled out the muffin, peeling the paper cup off of it before breaking it into pieces and eating them. He wasn’t fond of bran, but someone had been gently hinting it would be good for him to get some nutrition in once in a while—

God he missed her.

*** *** ***

“Succulents are your best bet, sir. They can take a lot of direct sun, and don’t need much watering. I’d suggest Burro Tail or Boston Beans if you’re needed to fill in a large area,” the young nursery clerk commented. Grissom looked over the flats and considered his options. Gardening wasn’t his forte by any means, but he could handle filling in a few flowerbeds. Physical labor would keep him busy enough not to brood.

Much.

He chose seven flats of assorted succulents and wandered around the nursery as they were being loaded to the register, his glance taking everything in carefully. Grissom noted the stone statuary and vaguely wondered if Sara would object to something for the back yard. Nothing cutesy of course; he couldn’t imagine staring out of the kitchen window onto a stone fairy or gnome family. But some of the tortoises looked like reasonably accurate replications. He drifted closer to a cluster of them and studied the stone carapaces.

“Grissom!”

Looking up at the sound of his name, he caught sight of Greg, clutching a two-pound bag of peat moss in one hand and a flowerpot in the other. Over his shoulder peeked a round baby face.

“Greg,” he nodded, “Wyatt.”

At the sound of his name, the baby in the backpack blinked, trying to focus on the source of the voice. Greg winced as a small hand tugged his hair. “Dude, release already!” he complained. Greg turned his attention to the man in front of him. “So what brings you to the exotic world of flora today?”

“Ground cover. And you?” he neatly deflected the question, cocking his head at Greg. Wyatt was busily chewing his own little pink fist as his father held up the flowerpot.

“Repotting my grandmother’s African Violets. Someone who shall remain nameless managed to pull them over in his tablecloth clutching excitement today.”

Grissom smiled, picturing the moment of domestic chaos. Greg managed a grin himself and looked over his shoulder at the child.

“Luckily none of the plants were damaged, just stunned, therefore the Wyatt man and I are here to make amends.”

“When’s the hearing?” Grissom asked softly, still watching the baby closely. Greg dropped his gaze, his shoulders suddenly tense.

“In two weeks,” Greg muttered softly, “If Sondra can actually make it to the courthouse this time.”

Gris nodded gently, shifting, not sure how to be supportive, but Wyatt burbled and kicked, making his father grin again.

“Oooh no rest for the weary! Gotta go boss man, the Capo di tutti Capi here drives me on.”

“All right,” Grissom nodded. He watched Greg lope off with the baby on his back with a new keenness and it was only when the nursery clerk tapped his shoulder that he remembered his errand.

*** *** ***

It shouldn’t have been a moral dilemma, but it was. Grissom stared at the package of frozen enchiladas in his hands and hesitated, noting the garish photo on the front, the enchiladas steaming and fragrant, carefully bisected to show the rich meat filling.

Meat. That was the question. So far it hadn’t been an issue, not with eggs and pasta and cheese and rice and vegetables and a little cooperative cooking. He’d been more than willing to experiment, and Sara had no compunction about showing off her recently revived cooking skills either. They ate well on the weekends, even when they didn’t go out.

But did this weekend count, Grissom wondered. He was alone, and perfectly capable of driving himself to El Rosale if he really wanted enchiladas. Dulce and Nestor would be glad to see him he knew, yet he didn’t feel like leaving the house. And in the house, there was no meat.

He stared at the package; the enchiladas had beef, although there were cheese ones still in the freezer case. Absently he turned the box over and looked at the ingredients, still debating the issue with himself. Coming from a Midwestern family made it hard to wean away from carnivorous tradition. His mouth twitched.

“The surest defense against temptation is cowardice,” he told himself, and tossed the box back into the freezer case with a laugh. In the next aisle he doubled up on macaroni and cheese.

*** *** ***

The phone rang. Grissom waited patiently, amused at the old fashioned tone that indicated a regular phone instead of a cell. One the third ring a voice answered, low and masculine.

“Ocean Inn, this is Tom Sidle, may I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Gil Grissom from Las Vegas, and I’d like to speak to Virgo DawnPrincess if she’s there.”

A faint snort of amusement echoed down the line, and Tom’s voice sounded much warmer this time. “Dear God, nobody’s used Sara’s _real_ name since Iran took the US Embassy hostage, dude. Let me go get her, all right? Jeez!” with more chuckling, the voice faded away. Grissom heard the sound of hurried footsteps and a clunk as the receiver fell.

“You are NEVER to call me that, Gilbert Gordon Grissom! I told you in strictest confidence, and I do NOT appreciate your abuse of that trust!” came her laughing snarl over the tinny line. 

He grinned so hard it hurt, hearing her attempt to be mad. “At least your mother had some aesthetic appreciation of symbolic nomenclature instead of being addicted to alliteration.”

“Who knows what YOU might have been named if YOUR mother gave birth to you on an Indian blanket on the beach while praising the rising sun. Let’s just call it a draw here, okay?”

A quiet loving pause filled the line, and Sara sighed. “He’s improving. They got to the clot in the first hour and managed to dissolve it, so the doctors are telling us he’s through the worst of it right now.”

“That’s good news,” Grissom comforted her.  
She sighed again. “So far. Mom’s holding up, and Tom’s here along with the kids, so it’s a full house at the moment. Tomorrow they’re going to do a cerebral assessment on dad and we’ll take it from there.”

“Good.”

“Grissom?” came her voice, softer now, wistful.

He pressed the receiver closer to his ear.”Yes?”

“What are you wearing?” came her slow tease.   
He laughed; he couldn’t help it, and stretched out on the bed, crossing his ankles. “At the moment, a towel and a grin,” he replied honestly, provoking a little gasp and giggle from the other end of the line.

“You are NOT.”

“I am,” he assured her gravely and Sara made a greedy sound.

“You just bathed,” came her deduction. Grissom made a little encouraging noise.

“Where are you?”

“The house. It IS the weekend you know.”

“You’re there? Really?” she sounded pleased, and embarrassed to be pleased. 

Grissom shifted a hand behind his head as he cradled the phone to his ear. “Of course I am. I promised to get to the flowerbeds and I try to keep my word about such things. “

“You didn’t go overboard did you?”

Patiently he sighed. “Sara, I’ve been maintaining this yard off and on for fifteen years or so. I know what I’m doing.”

A faint silence greeted this, and he wondered if she was annoyed at him. It was hard to tell without seeing her face. Finally her voice came over the line. “Sorry . . . I just—I just miss being there. I’ve gotten used to you being my weekend project.”

“Me?” he blinked, warmed and startled at the same time.

Her soft laugh echoed in his ear. “Oh yeah babe. Care and feeding of one slightly cranky, terminally horny entomologist. It’s a high maintenance job, but I love putting in the hours.”

Another pause lingered in the conversation.

“Care to make the position permanent?” Grissom blurted, his pulse racing even as the words left his mouth. He bit his tongue, not daring to breathe, wondering where the hell that sudden insane impulse had sprung from.

He heard her make a choked sound, and then came the clatter of dishes from somewhere. “I don’t know—I’ll have to talk to my boss,” Sara countered, and even though her tone was light, the flirtatious element was tempered by something else, something he couldn’t quite recognize. Grissom fought a deep stab of disappointment. Maybe she misunderstood. God knew HE wasn’t too clear on what he’d just suggested. Maybe he hadn’t actually, sort of . . .

“Listen, I have to go, Gris. I’ll try to call you after dad’s assessment tomorrow to see if I need a longer leave. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Sara . . .” he gripped the phone a little tighter, “About what I said—”

“—Love you,” she broke in, a little desperately. “Think of me tonight because I sure as hell will be thinking of you. Night, Gil—”

And the line clicked. Grissom slowly folded up the cell phone and set it on the nightstand, then dropped a hand over his eyes. “Love you—“ he whispered to no one.

*** *** ***

The phone rang. Muzzily Grissom picked it up after the second grab at it. “Grissom.”

“Hey Grissom, I hate like hell to bother you. This is Adele, and I’ve got a request from the Silver Springs sheriff’s office for a time of death timeline on a body from a mineshaft?”

Grissom fished for his glasses, noting it was nearly ten in the morning. Slowly he began to get up. “That’s fine. I’ll be in within an hour, Adele.”

“Sorry about taking up your Saturday, but—”

“No problem,” he dutifully countered through a yawn.

The lab was nearly empty as Grissom made his way down the halls. He fought the tiny sense of déjà vu lingering from his Friday dream and made his way to the autopsy bay where Al Robbins waited.

“Vegas does NOT deserve two contentious warriors like us.” He told Grissom with a smile. Grissom grunted and wandered over to the body on the gurney. It was stained brown and nearly skeletal, with tufts of grass and clods of dirt clinging everywhere. Various beetles, flies and millipedes were already moving along the stainless steel surface. 

Robbins handed over a green coffee mug and pointed with his chin.“A Jane Doe, roughly sixteen to eighteen years old. No clothing or personal effects found with the body. I’ve done the dental x-ray and preliminary cause of death . . .”

Grissom sipped the coffee and looked over the rim at Robbins, who sighed. “Blunt trauma to the back of the head. Her skull was bashed in, but the object left an unusual impression—not the usual bat or club or rock.”

For a while they discussed the case as Grissom deftly captured specimens and dropped them in separate Petrie dishes. After a while, Robbins managed a casual tone as he asked, “So how’s Sara?”

Gil hesitated a second, then went back to chasing a particularly elusive beetle. “You heard about her father I take it.”

“Yes. Catherine mentioned a stroke,” Robbins agreed, watching the other man closely.

Grissom frowned, finally pinning the bug with tweezers. “The doctors managed to get to the clot within the golden hour, so she tells me his recovery ought to be good. She sounded upbeat.”

“Ah.” Robbins replied, scraping a cell sample from a femur.

For a while longer they worked on in companionable silence. Grissom rounded up his Petrie dishes and added a soil sample to the lot. Not looking at Robbins, he suddenly asked, “Al? How long have you been married?”

Careful to avert his gaze from Grissom, Robbins kept his focus on the slide he was preparing. “Thirty-two years so far. How Simone still manages to put up with me is one of the unexplained wonders of the world.”

“Do you—work at it?”

At his wondering tone, Robbins DID smile to himself. “I don’t know if it’s work, Gil—it’s more like a state of being. An elevated plane where your consciousness crosses with hers, like a Venn diagram.”

Grissom brightened. “Spiritual mathematics.”

“Close enough,” Robbins smiled, finally looking over his shoulder at the other man. “Joys multiplied, sorrows divided, and ultimately, a greater sum between you than either of you apart. Souls balanced in a timeless equation, so to speak.”

Grissom’s gaze flickered to the ring on Robbins’s left hand; the coroner pretended not to notice, but inwardly he grinned. “The fact she’s even letting me come in on a Saturday is testimony to the woman’s patience. We were SUPPOSED to look at drapes,” he grumbled.

Grissom managed a dutiful chuckle and slipped out of the double doors carrying the insect samples. Robbins shook his grizzled head watching him go. “Got a sleeve big enough for that heart you’re wearing, Grissom?” he murmured gently to himself.

*** *** ***

By the time the Jane Doe had been identified as Latonia Jameson, Grissom had proven conclusively that she’d been down the mineshaft for just over four months, a timeline that coincided with the parole of her hot-tempered ex-con boyfriend. Brass picked him up at his bowling alley job, and Grissom remembered the moment of satisfaction at matching Latonia’s head trauma to the edge of a bowling pin.

He drove away from the lab, turning onto the fifteen without thinking about it, and it was only as he pulled up on the gravel drive of 10867 Caliente that he realized where he was. Grissom gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly in his hands, realizing how ingrained the routine had become now. He rubbed his forehead agitatedly.

He managed a quick peanut butter sandwich, and was settling down to read when a strange noise made him jump. It came again, a quick ‘taptaptap’ at the front door. For a moment he froze, then drew in a breath and rose to answer it slowly.

The delivery woman was wide and black, and chewed a cheek full of gum ferociously as she held out the basket. “Doctor Grisson?”

“Grissom,” he corrected politely, looking at the wicker basket warily.

The delivery woman grinned. “I have special instructions that go with this package, sir,” she held out a clipboard and cleared her throat. “Quote, this is so he doesn’t starve to death on tofu, unquote. I have no idea what that means, do you?”

He was smiling already, looking at the blocks of cheese and sausage that filled the basket, along with fresh bread, crackers and cans of salted nuts.   
Taking it from the delivery woman, Grissom nodded. “She worries about my ability to feed myself,” he admitted.

The delivery woman laughed, her big white teeth flashing. “Well I wouldn’t fret about the next few days, sir. Enjoy the feast!”

Grissom watched her truck drive off and then took the wicker basket into the living room as emotions swirled in him. His loneliness was pierced by a shy sense of delight in the unexpected gift, and through all of it sweet warm memories of Sara permeated his every thought. He couldn’t be sure if this meat supportive stance would last through her return, but for the duration, at least, the snacking would be good, he mused as he sipped his coffee.

On impulse he picked up his cell phone and hit the first speed dial button. The phone rang several times then connected to a voice mailbox promising a return call at a later time. Frowning, Grissom dialed the Ocean Inn number, waiting through several rings before a familiar voice finally answered. “Ocean Inn, I’m Sara, how may I help you?” came her distant low voice.

Distracted by her tone, Grissom fumbled with his mug; it fell, smashing on the kitchen floor, the coffee splattering over his socks. “Sara what’s wrong?”

“Grissom!” her tone perked up slightly, but he could practically feel the fatigue in it. Ignoring the mess at his feet he waited.

“God, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. Dad’s had another stroke,” she blurted in a rush of words that sent a cold shock through Gil’s entire frame.

“Is he--?”

“He’s in ICU right now, but the doctors have been talking to mom about the prognosis and . . . it’s not that great. According to them he’s got severely blocked arteries, so that’s complicating things. Right now we’re in a holding pattern waiting to see if the clot busting drugs are going to help, and Mom refuses to close the B&B, so we’re putting in the time here too . . .”

“I’m coming out there,” Grissom told her firmly.   
Sara gave a placating chuckle. “That’s really sweet, but there’s nothing you can do, babe. The three of us are taking turns sitting with dad and running the Inn, so we’ve got it covered here.” Despite her calm, brave words, Grissom could hear the pain deeply embedded in her voice. He found himself gripping the cell phone so tightly the edge was cutting into his hand. So forcing himself to relax, he glanced down at the floor.

The mess there resembled the one in his dream exactly; a second chill brushed though his entire body.

“Sara, honey . . .” words of comfort eluded him and he chewed his lip helplessly. On the other end came a soft hum.

“It’s okay, really. Mom and dad have a lot of friends and neighbors, Grissom. We’ve got more casseroles than we know what to do with.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” momentarily piqued at her self-sufficiency, Grissom stopped prodding the coffee cup shards with his wet sock.

“Gil, someone’s famous last words to me once were and I quote, ‘the lab needs you’ unquote. Yes I want you here, but it’s probably not a good idea right now. Of course, if dad . . .” her voice trailed away and Grissom’s stomach clenched at the sound of her muffled sniffling. She cleared her throat hastily.

“Sorry, getting a little negative there.”

“Sara, you’re entitled to cry. You’ve been through a lot, honey, and the human spirit can only take so much.”

“I won’t cry HERE,” she insisted fiercely in a low, urgent whisper. “Only with you. Then it’s safe.”

The intensity of her words made Grissom shake slightly; he braced himself against the counter before speaking, hoping his voice didn’t break. “Whatever you need, Sara acushla.”

The warm pause that flowed between them after that was charged with joy and longing; Grissom forced the lump out of his throat, wondering when he’d developed it.

Finally Sara laughed. “So—did you get the basket?”   
her tone was milder, and carried a hint of pleading.

Grissom responded to her unspoken request for lightness. “Yes I did, thank you. Is this for the duration, or are you coming back to the dark side?” as he spoke he fished for the paper towels and began to clean up the kitchen floor.

“Consider it a reprieve,” she assured him. “I don’t object to YOU eating meat, babe.”

“But you’re still holding out?” he teased, ever so gently.

Sara made a soft rumble in his ear. “The only heated flesh I take down my throat is YOURS, Grissom.”

He tried to stifle his moan, but Sara laughed at the tiny noise he made.

“That sounds like some one misses me—“ came her gloat.

Unable to deny it outright, Grissom cleared his throat. “Yeah well while I’m trying to do the noble supportive partner thing, if you say things like THAT, then certain parts of me are not with the program,” he confessed huskily, dumping the soggy paper towels and broken ceramic in the trash.

“Mmmmm, now THAT does me good to hear.”

“Sara . . .” Grissom hesitated, then plunged on, “When did you start . . . feeling a certain way about me?”

In the long pause that followed, Grissom held his breath. He heard the faint sounds of a microwave in the background. “Well, the physical attraction started the minute I felt your hand brushing maggots out of my lap. You have really nice hands, you know. Big and gentle.”

Grissom let out a sigh and she added, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to—“

“—Look for reassurance? I suppose not, but you’re not here, and I’m . . . lonely.”

The confession made him grimace a little, as did the sharp longing for her that suddenly flooded through him. Grissom hated himself for sounding so needy, but the soft purr on the end of the line interrupted his pity party.

“God, Gil—“ came Sara’s voice, strong and sweet.

He coughed. “You know it’s strange, but I never realized all this time that that was the case. I function, Sara—I can work and read and sleep and eat just as I always have—but without you in my orbit, it’s pretty bleak.”

“Okay, I’m officially ODing on your Love Jones here babe. Gotta stop or I really WILL cry,” Sara sniffled, her contralto lilting happily in his ear.

He grinned. “It works? The truth works?”

“Always did, Grissom. So go chew on your nitrite-loaded goodies and ponder that for a while. I’ll let you know about dad when I know, all right?”

“Good. Go sleep Sara, I know you need it.”

“Will do in a few hours. I have muffins to make for the breakfast buffet first. Have to go. Be good.”

Grissom smiled into the phone.

“Sara?”

“Yeah?”

“My heart is with yours,” he told her softly. She made another sniffling sound.

“Okay, that REALLY is it or I’m going to lose it—good night, Grissom,” and the dial tone buzzed in his ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sara looked down at where her fingers were laced with the limp cool ones of her father. He was drooling a little from the lax left corner of his mouth, but his gaze was sharp and she smiled at him. William Sidle was a tall rangy man with thick white hair and formidable eyebrows that matched his bushy mustache; even while sitting up in a hospital bed he carried a strong presence of dignity and patience.

“Tom’s here for a while, okay Dad?” Sara told him.

William brought his right hand to give her slow thumbs up, and Sara stood, leaning over to kiss his lined cheek. Her brother slipped smoothly into the vacated chair after giving Sara’s shoulder a squeeze in passing.

“Hey Dad, how’s it going this morning?” Tom’s voice faded as she stepped out into the hall and looked over at her mother a few feet away.

Tall and slender, Avra Sidle wore her silver hair in a long braid down her back. Her wire-rim glasses magnified her chocolate brown eyes, and dimples framed her lovely mouth. She turned from her conversation with the nurse and caught Sara’s eye, smiling as she came over to her daughter.

“He liked that case story about the Sumo wrestlers,” Sara flashed a tired grin. Avra rolled her eyes and rubbed her chin thoughtfully.

“He’s alert, and his aura is much better. Doctor Singh is going to have him moved from the ICU today after the arterial scan.”

“That’s good," Sara agreed as her mother reached up over to her and lightly stroked her hair.

“Yes it is. Despite the setback, I have every faith your father’s going to do well for such a cranky old fart.”

Sara burst into giggles along with her mother, the tension relieving sort that made a few of the passing nurses look at them suspiciously.

“Mom!”

“Well he IS. If I’d known what a long strange trip it would be—" she shrugged her shoulders in a very familiar way, “I’d do it all over again exactly the same, of course. That’s what life-partnering is all about.”

“So being with the same man for over thirty years gives you the right to call him a cranky old fart?”

Avra arched an eyebrow as she and Sara made their way out to the hospital parking lot. “I’ve called him worse, darling, and he’s always forgiven me, not that I deserved it sometimes,” she sighed, polishing her glasses on her sleeve.

Sara drove them back to the Ocean Inn, listening with half a mind to her mother’s soft chatter. The day was overcast; rather like her mood, Sara realized. The phone calls with Grissom were the only bright spots through this ordeal, and even those seemed to be tinged with slightly frightening overtones.

Make the position permanent—what the hell did he MEAN by that, Sara wondered again for the hundredth time. Was it a proposal? Was it a suggestion that they stay at the house full time? Was it a request that she cook more often? Was it all of the above? Sara snorted to herself, well aware of how useless speculation was at this point. Grissom being the enigmatic that he was, would probably have forgotten all about his provocative comment by the time she returned, if he even bothered to think of it at all.

God that would be SO like him.

“You’re awfully quiet today. Something bumming you out honey?”

Flashing her mother an apologetic smile Sara gave a shrug. “Just thinking about something.”

“Hmmm," came her mother’s slightly cynical retort. “Forgive me, Sara but it looks more like a some ONE rather than a some THING. You’re blocking, big time.”

“I am NOT. My aura’s just fine and you know it. You’re just nosy,” came the cheerfully exasperated reply. 

Avra stared at the car ceiling.“Ah, well forgive ME if I sense that your sexual vitality is fluctuating wildly. What would I know, I’m ONLY the female who gave birth to you, nurtured you at my breasts in a sacred bond of—"

“Mom!” Sara rolled her eyes and then turned them to the woman next to her, glaring. “My fluctuating vitality, sexual or otherwise, is not the issue here.”

“Of course it is—you’re worried about the two most important men in your life, girlchild, and I can perceive it so strongly it’s about to knock me over. Dad will be fine, but maybe you need to tell me about the other one,” came Avra’s quiet voice. Sara gripped the wheel a little more tightly as the car pulled up to the long sandy driveway to the Inn.

She hesitated, biting her lower lip.

“Over mint tea, Sara. We’ll sit on the beach and you can tell me about him. It will do you good," her mother soothed in a low persuasive tone.

 

They carried their mugs down the rickety wooden steps to the beach, each woman wrapped in a thick crocheted poncho. Sara breathed in the salty breeze off the water with a sigh of homesickness as Avra motioned to a little secluded curve along the sand dunes. They settled in, and She was glad that it was an overcast day because it meant fewer people would be on the beach. Sara gripped her mug tightly.

Avra worked her bare feet into the cold sand and sipped her tea with satisfaction before murmuring, “Shall I tell you what I read, girlchild of mine?”

“Go ahead mom," Sara gave a crooked grin, well used to her mother’s tiny flashes of psychic insight.

Avra closed her eyes. “He has blue eyes.”

“Yep.”

Avra concentrated again.

“His focus lies with tiny life of some sort—germs or plankton or something.”

“Insects, actually.”

“And . . . he is . . ." Avra hesitated, her eyes still closed behind her wire rims, and then she rushed on, “Seeking harbor with you. Still far from the shore, but within sight of it and drifting closer, wave by tiny wave. How am I doing?”

Sara looked over at her mother’s expectant face. “One of these days you’re going to get it wrong," she grumbled with no real malice as her mother pumped a fist in the air triumphantly.

“Ha!” her mother hooted, “Maybe, but not today. The overlap of his energy on yours is fading, but it’s still there, Sara. You’ve let him get very close.”

Sara tried to look bland and innocent, but her mother just laughed, reaching over to pat her hand.

“So talk to me about this man who’s sending you a rose everyday, hmmmmm? Is he kind? Is he fair and honest and good for your soul?”

Sara blushed a little, looking out over the slowly breaking waves before answering.“He’s all of that. He’s more, even though not too many people can see it, mom,” Sara let the breeze brush her face, adding, “but this thing we have . . . it’s complicated.”

Avra waited, settling into her patience while Sara stared into her mug of tea and tried to think of a way to explain.

“We’re not in a position to make our relationship known at the moment.”

“You work together then. An office romance,” Avra supplied in a soft tone.

Sara nodded without looking at her mother. “Not forbidden exactly, just sort of discouraged. One of us would have to go to day or swing shift eventually if it got out that we were . . . intimate.”

“Are you?” Avra asked. When Sara looked at her, she clarified, “Intimate? Have you gotten drunk together and fought and compromised and laughed and cried together sweetheart? Have you seen him in passion and pain? Has he seen the same of you?”

Sara closed her eyes tightly as she winnowed through the memories dancing in her mind. Images of Grissom losing his temper over a budget memo; of him asleep in her arms, sweaty and warm; of him patiently showing her the extended leg of a bush cricket; of his hungry mouth moving on the nape of her neck—

“Yeah,” she croaked softly, as the last image she recalled was the terrible majesty of Grissom carrying tiny Zachary Anderson through a sunny morning.

Avra shivered a little, but managed a smile. “So . . . and where are you going with this . . . complicated thing of yours?”

“I don’t know,” blurted Sara, more loudly than she realized. Looking chagrined she rubbed her forehead. “When I’m WITH him it’s not complicated at all. He’s who he is, and I’m who I am, and in the overlap we’ve got so much . . ."

“Chi,” her mother supplied helpfully.

Sara nodded. “Yes, so much energy it surges through the both of us, recharging us to a depth and breadth like nothing I’ve felt before.”

Avra nodded at this, as if she expected it, and Sara moved closer to her, drawing comfort from their proximity. “He nurtures the inner you, and that’s a great thing, Sara my child. Men are not always comfortable with nurturing their partners—they lead them, command them, direct them, but rarely cherish them. You may have finally wandered to where you need to be.”

Sara pursed her mouth and sipped her lukewarm tea as she mulled over her mother’s words. The cry of a seagull echoed over the water in the quiet pause and both women smiled at the sound, glancing at each other. Avra tossed her long braid over her shoulder.

“My restless Virgo," she sighed, “Always looking to the horizons, seeking something beyond the next sunrise. Your father and I knew you’d find your way, even it if your journey took longer and went further than your brother’s or ours.”

“Oh I’m still wandering, mom—I just stay put doing it,” Sara countered softly.

Avra snorted. “You’re the scientist, you don’t GET to make koans.”

“I can be as Buddhist as I want, okay?” Sara teased. “It goes perfectly with my vegetarian stance these days.”

“Of course. I’ll get out my copy of Laurel’s Kitchen for Thanksgiving this year and make sure to look up Tofu turkey before you come.”

Sara looked startled; her mother laughed, dimples deepening. “Hadn’t thought about the holidays yet? This love HAS broad sided you, hasn’t it? You’d better talk to him.”

Sara gave an emphatic nod and dropped her gaze to the sand around her bare feet, studying it for a long moment. “Mom, you haven’t asked who he is, or how we fell in love, or what our future’s going to be. What kind of a parent ARE you?”

Avra wrapped an arm around Sara’s shoulders, hugging her daughter with surprising strength. “A smart one and you know it. The only person who’s called is your supervisor, so it has to be HIM, girlchild. You’ve been talking about him for a few years now; it’s not much of a surprise. And as for the future—no one can say, although I’d like to point out that I myself married MY boss, so I’m not in a position to call this kettle black just yet.”

Sara felt a lightness in her chest rising up, a sense of relief in sharing this precious thing. She laughed, long and loud as her mother joined in, hugging her again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

Grissom signed off the computer and checked his watch, noting with faint surprise that it was nearly eleven in the morning. The latest e-mail from his mother had come from Barcelona, where she and Alex were studying frescoes. She’d insisted on sending blooming plants to Tamales Bay and urged him to keep in touch with her.

He looked around his townhouse, taking in the framed moths, the orderly bookcases and tidy worktable.

Very neat.

Very precise.

Normally it would have soothed him after a long night at work, to come back to an environment like this laid out to his specific tastes and needs. Dark floors eased eyestrain. White walls pacified the psyche. Classical music focused the mind.

It dawned on him that his entire décor looked like the dayroom in a psychiatric ward.

Grissom wandered from the computer to the loveseat, looking down at it. He’d slept here more than he wanted to admit, not that it was particularly comfortable. But he wasn’t sleeping well in the townhouse bed anymore. It was too big nowadays even though he hadn’t lost weight.

Weight, ha.

Well five days a week he lost about one hundred and six pounds if his estimate was right. A sleek eight stone of warm satiny woman he could wrap around, or pull over himself as the dictates of his unconscious body demanded. With a throb, Grissom remembered one delightful afternoon in particular: waking up to find Sara firmly ensconced in his hug, her long legs wrapped around one of his, her sleeping face pressed into his ribcage. Molded to him.

He rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at his watch again. It had been only six days since Sara left, and he couldn’t afford to lose any more sleep, not when there was an easy way to get some rest. He picked up his car keys and headed out.

Within an hour he was sound asleep, curled around a faintly Sara-scented pillow, his face buried in it as the sun filtered through shades over the French doors of the bedroom.

*** *** ***

She packed her suitcase carefully; putting in the drawings Sophie and Sam had done for her. They were fairly artistic for crayon masterpieces, and Sara had promised to frame them once she got home. Nine-year-old Sam had done a nice portrait of her, all long lines and somewhat stranger hair than she normally had. Five-year-old Sophie had done a very nice cat picture complete with pink ribbons and fluffy tail.

“Hey—Dad’s in the living room by the fireplace, Sara—you mind sitting with him while mom and I get the lasagna on?” Tom asked softly from the doorway.

Sara looked at her brother and nodded. “Not a problem,” she smiled.

William was sitting in the willow rocker on one side of the stone fireplace, looking pale but stronger. His eyes followed Sara as she walked towards him and he managed a smile.

“Hey Sara,” he greeted her raspily, his throat still sore from the gastric tube. She smiled, settling in along the brick edge of the fireplace and taking his hand. It was warm now, and gripped hers back lightly. “Getting ready to head back?”

“Yeah, going to have to. The lab needs me,” she told him with a squeeze to his fingers.

Her father laughed, a dry sound that rattled out of his chest as he looked at her. “You bet—I’m sure Vegas is having a crime wave while you’re out of town, eh?”

Giggling, Sara cocked her head and studied her father’s face, comforted at what she saw. He was alert, and quite a bit of motor control had returned to his face and left arm. The doctors had been cautiously optimistic, and felt that with therapy he would be mobile again, although he would probably need a cane. Will arched a shaggy eyebrow at his daughter.

“IS work going all right, Sara?” he asked, gently. His tone was so similar to Grissom’s that she shivered for a second.

“Yeah, it’s going great. I work with some fantastic people, and the lab itself is pretty amazing. I keep hoping you and mom will come out and see it sometime.”

“Maybe when I’m back on my feet," he rumbled. Sara blushed at her faux pas, but he squeezed her fingers forgivingly. “Atta girl, never lose a sense of humor about things. Your mother keeps threatening to shave me now that I can’t fight back."

They both chuckled at the long running joke; William had worn his mustache for nearly fifty years, and Sara had never seen him without it, not even in photos. It was as much a part of him as his twinkling eyes or strong square shoulders.

“I see Tom’s been flirting with a cookie duster too," she observed.

Her father rolled his eyes. “It’s a smudge. That thing’s not worthy of the name mustache,” he balefully announced. “My _grandmother_ grew a better one, and that’s no lie."

“Dad!” Sara laughed, smothering it in the sleeve of her shirt. 

He wiggled his nose. “The truth. In fact your mother’s jealous, that’s why she grows her hair so long—compensation.”

“Oh really?” came a sweetly sarcastic tone as Avra sailed over carrying a steaming mug.

William looked up at her and grinned.“Certainly. You secretly long for your own ’stache, Avra baby, but lacking the necessary hormones, decided to go the Rapunzel route instead. Basic psychology here.”

“Will Sidle you are so full of it your eyes are two shades browner today," despite her tart words, Avra carefully guided the mug to her husband’s lips and tipped it so he could sip. Every action was gentle and smooth; Sara watched with a pang as her father used his good hand to rub Avra’s denim-clad hip with sweet familiarity.

“Dinner’s on, Sara—you should eat before Tom takes you to the airport. I don’t trust what they serve on those flights—even the peanuts are suspect.”

“Okay mom." Rising, Sara made her way up to the kitchen, glancing back once to see her mother lightly kiss her father’s nose.

*** *** ***

MacCarran airport was as crowded and noisy as ever, and Grissom checked the flight board in the main hall, hoping he hadn’t missed something important. It was galling not to be able to go directly up to the gate, but the new security standards everywhere curbed all sorts of former conveniences now.

The flight from San Francisco was due in a few minutes. Grissom noted that, and looked around for the walkway from gate 15. He began the long walk down the length of the concourse, trying not to smile as his pace quickened. Around him were noisy clusters of tourists and business travelers and families and college students all shifting and moving towards destinations of their own, mingling and mixing along the way. He looked up at the displays again. Flight 1267 would be disembarking at the same time as flight 877 from Houston—

He was concentrating so hard he nearly ran into a garbage can, and caught himself apologizing to the thing. Grissom forced himself to calm down and take a breath; he positioned himself at the foot of the escalator/ stairwell that led down from Gate 15 and tried to look reasonably nonchalant, even though his stomach churned.

The first wave of passengers began clambering down the escalator and he scanned them quickly. Judging from the number of University of Texas shirts he spotted it was evident that 877 had made it in on time. The rush faded to a trickle of passengers, some of them looking pleased, most merely tired. Grissom watched as several people met up with friends or family in happy little scenarios.

“You’ve grown so much!”

“—Flight movie was awful! I HATE Adam Sandler—"

“—Kept a few of the good slots open for you at Treasure Island—"

He looked up the stairwell again and his chest lurched as he spotted a familiar figure starting to drag a wheeled carry on behind her on the escalator. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so Grissom shifted to the other side of the stairs, into her line of vision, never taking his gaze from her. When Sara finally looked around, she spotted him almost immediately, her face brightening at the sight of him.

The escalator was too slow; Grissom sprinted up to Sara, hearing her laugh when he reached her.

“Hi,” she smiled a lovely smile, her just-for-him smile, he realized. He knew he was grinning like an idiot but didn’t care at the moment. They reached the ground and stepped off onto the concourse still looking at each other, the rest of the world slightly out of focus.

“I loved you.”

“Excuse me?” startled, Sara blinked.

Grissom frowned. “I missed you. A lot,” he amended, going a little pink at his Freudian slip. Sara wisely said nothing, but reached up and lightly touched his face, her fingers caressing his beard along his jaw line. The feel of her cool fingers made him sigh happily.

Sara lifted her chin. “I missed you too. My roses helped though. Pretty extravagant of you, babe.”

“The county gives me a lot of money every month. I have to do something with it,” Grissom replied, lightly shrugging.

Under their words lay a lovely tension coiling tighter and tighter. Sara was all too aware of a desire to simply launch herself at Grissom, but held it down hard; by the glow in his blue eyes, the feeling seemed pretty mutual. They made their way through the concourse, chatting of inconsequential things, their interlocked hands making love in tender squeezes and strokes.

When they made it to the underground parking lot, Sara stopped in the stairwell and yanked Grissom’s hand hard; he turned and sailed into her kiss, bumping her up against the cinderblock wall. The floodgates opened; Sara growled into his mouth pushing her hips hard against his big body as he pinned her. The silky rasp of tongues over palates, the wet sounds of soft lips and suction echoed faintly off the concrete around them; neither Sara nor Grissom cared. They kissed with a ferocious intensity, an urgent desire to taste each other to the fullest degree.

Sara finally pulled her mouth from his and set her lips against his ear, making him groan. “Damn it, I want you so much right now,” came her whispered confession, “Totally!”

“Let’s go home,” he pleaded as his hands slid down her slender waist to the sweet flare of her hips. Sara nodded tightly.

“Home, “ she agreed.

 

They both grabbed the doorknob at the same time; Sara laughed to feel Grissom’s fingers tighten over hers, helping her turn it.

“We’re not anxious to any degree are we?”

“It’s SO hard to get anything past a Las Vegas CSI," Grissom murmured sweetly, herding her inside. Sara stopped suddenly, making him run into her as she looked around the living room with a perceptive eye. She picked up the neatly finished crossword from the coffee table and looked at the half-empty bottle of beer.

“You’ve been _living_ here," it wasn’t quite an accusation, but Grissom winced a little, rubbing the back of his neck agitatedly.

“Part of the time," came his reluctant reply. “I wasn’t sleeping well, and I didn’t want to resort to medication, so I just sort of—changed arrangements.”

Sara shot him a keen glance, her lust temporarily sidetracked by curiosity. “Did it help?”

“Yeah. Here, I’m out like a light,” he responded, watching her warily as she slowly took off her coat and hung it in the closet. Over her shoulder, she flashed a smile at him that he couldn’t quite interpret, but it was piercingly sweet. Grissom stepped up behind her, arms encircling her waist. Sara wriggled her bottom against him and he rumbled happily.

“It’s not just about THIS you know,” he mumbled into her hair. Sara led him towards the bedroom, her throaty laugh echoing back to him.

“Of course not, we can both quit anytime we like, right?”

He froze.

Feeling him tense, Sara turned in his grasp to see his stricken face and a surge of panic shot through her; she widened her eyes.

“It was a JOKE, Gil, a really bad one, okay?”

“Kiss me again," he pleaded softly; Sara finally gave in to her urge. She launched herself at him, catching Grissom firmly in her arms, hungrily sucking at his mouth. Gratified and just as eagerly he kissed her back while his fingers wove into her hair to hold her close. Sara felt her tension dissolve in the quicksilver lust that rose up in a syrupy tide between her thighs. Grissom growled into her mouth as they swayed in the doorway.

“Don’t scare me, Sara. It’s not a light thing for me, this . . . love business. I can take jokes about everything else, but not this," he implored in a low voice. 

Shaken, Sara nodded, “No more facetiousness, babe. You’re right, it’s nothing to make light of, and I’m sorry.”

With a great sigh of relief, Grissom hugged her hard, squeezing her tightly to him.

She squeaked.“Breathe! Gotta breathe!” came her laughing gasp. With a relieved smirk he let go slowly and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Now where were we?" he rumbled, arching an eyebrow at her. Sara took his hand and tugged him over to the bed, gently pushing him down on it and backing away a few steps.

“You were sitting here . . . watching me strip for you,” she insisted softly, cocking her head in a playful manner. Grissom drew in a breath; his blue eyes bright and focused on her.

“Oh course,” he agreed in a slightly dazed voice, “absolutely, yes."

“And then . . .” Sara prompted, slowly. A soft smile touched Grissom’s mouth.

He echoed, “And then?”

Sara reached into her jeans pocket. Like a magician performing a trick, she pulled out a long, wide, scarlet velvet ribbon edged in delicate black lace. She dangled it gently in front of his face, gratified to see the thick ridge of his cock strain against the fabric of his slacks. Grissom’s eyes followed the swaying ribbon and he swallowed hard.

Sara lightly laid it over his thighs, sighing happily.

“Like it?”

“Yes,” he rasped, eyes glittering, “And so will you . . ."

Sara swayed a little, and unbuttoned her jeans, toying with the rivets, savoring the relentless attention of his gaze. She felt a sweet energy vibrating all over her, a tingle of anticipation that grew as she rolled her hips and pushed her jeans down low enough to step out of them. She turned, swinging her step, shifting her hips in a shimmy that brought a little groan from the man behind her.

“Did I ever tell you I used to daydream about this? “ she confessed in her husky contralto, “About stripping for you? Just the thought of you watching me slowly get naked still turns me on.”

“Me too," came Grissom’s growl.

She looked over her shoulder and laughed softly. “You used to dream of it, or it turns you on?”

“Both.”

“Ah,” Sara half turned and stretched, making her long lines even longer. Her thin grey sweater rode up, revealing her flat stomach and lower edge of her ribcage, but she noted Grissom’s attention was focused lower than that.

“You look like you’ve never seen a lace thong before," she teased. His glance flickered up to her face and he gave her a devastating smile.

“Gift wrap,” he corrected firmly as he toyed with the ribbon draped on his thighs. Sara gave a little shiver and faced him as she brought her hands down to the edge of her sweater. She grabbed it and tugged the top up over her head in one fluid motion, lightly tossing it at Grissom, who batted it away with a lazy laugh.

“Better moves than Catherine?” she demanded.

He laughed again. “Don’t know—I never saw her dance, Thank God.”

Sara sashayed closer, enjoying herself immensely. “Thank God?” she echoed.

Grissom shook his head. “Many men look at Catherine and see a beautiful woman. All I see is a friend who admits she wants my job.”

“Grissom!” Sara spluttered into chuckles.

He continued to stare at her body as he licked his lips. “Catherine’s not my type. Sexuality is a means to an end for her, nothing more. Another tool in her kit, Sara.”

As he spoke he reached out to her hips, stroking them with his warm palms, cupping the bones lightly. His touch made Sara give a shuddering sigh.

“Ohhhhhh.”

“And frankly we have MUCH better things to talk about, right?”

“R-right," Sara agreed in choked tones as his thumbs slid up under the hip straps of her thong. Grissom cupped her rear reverently.

“For instance, did I ever tell you about my first lust attack?” he asked conversationally. Confused, Sara looked down into his smiling face and he rambled on.

“The first casual Friday you were with us. You were in the Trace lab, bent over the light table and working on something. I stepped in to see the most magnificent ass I’d ever laid eyes on right there, within hand’s reach. Thank God I had a lab coat on or you would have seen me for the evil-minded supervisor I am.”

“You’re kidding!” Sara gulped, pleased at his words and enjoying his soft caress of her bottom.

He shook his head. “Magnificent,” he repeated in a slightly dreamy tone. “You wore maroon hiphuggers with that wide silver belt, and the act of bending over dropped the back edge of your jeans so low I could see the dimples on either side of your backbone. The small of your spine between your jeans and your tank top—I’d never seen _anything_ so erotically enticing.”

Sara felt his fingers slide up under the thin stretchy lace of her thong. She braced her hands on his big shoulders. “Wow!"

“It would have been so easy to reach out, grab your gorgeous butt and squeeze," he admitted, doing just that, his warm palms clenching around the smooth globes of her ass. Sara squealed, hips rocking forward. He kissed her belly button, tongue sliding into it.

Sara gave a soft cry as the ticklish brush of his beard nuzzled under her navel. She swayed, her hands tightening on his shoulders. Teeth nipped her and her stomach tensed with hot sexual sparks.

“Gris—"

“Teacher,” came the muffled response. The smug tone annoyed Sara slightly, but the heat sliding up between her thighs scorched it away and she wriggled against his big hands. He loosened his hold and with agility managed to tug her thong down, lightly brushing it down her legs until it landed on her feet in a little puddle of lace.

“An A for presentation, an A plus for contents. Shall we move on to active participation?” he rumbled. Sara modestly dropped a hand over the soft fur between her legs, making him chuckle again.

“Nice display of materials."

She giggled; she couldn’t help responding to his seductive lecture mode and reached for the ribbon on his lap. “I brought my binder.”

“Yes that’s going to help with the in-depth, hands-on work . . ." Grissom cheerfully smiled, accepting it from her. Sara held her wrists out, giddy with anticipation.

Grissom turned his face slightly and his dimples deepened. “Spontaneity is the key to an engaging session with a student. Presenting a puzzle or dilemma can be an invaluable learning tool." As he spoke, Grissom brought the ribbon around the back of Sara’s knees, wrapping it twice around before tying it in a surprisingly beautiful bow in the front.

She looked down, perplexed. “Pretty, but . . . limiting,” she observed breathlessly since his hands had returned to caressing her ass in slow possessive strokes.

“A knotty problem for a naughty girl,” he cooed, enjoying her dilemma intensely. Sara worked her jaw back and forth, her lean frame thrumming now with sexual tension searing just under her skin now by his soft touch.

“Um . . .” she began swaying.

He stood and turned, dropping her back onto the mattress.“State the problem, Sara.”

“My legs are tied together.”

“Why is this a problem?”

“Because I want you between them,” she pointed out with loving exasperation, “Making love to me!”

“Stunning summation," Grissom lifted her legs and kissed her ankles; Sara shrieked as his beard tickled the thin skin on the top of her bare feet. She clutched a pillow and tossed it at him; he gave her a mock frown.

“Keep that up and you’ll be staying after class, Ms. Sidle.”

“Banging erasers along with the teacher?” she batted her eyes at him and he chuckled.

“Perfect use of innuendo—extra credit,” he mused, his fingers gripping her ankles. Sara let him rest her feet against his chest and took a moment to look at him in all his unguarded amazing beauty. He looked happy. The corners of his mouth were turned up, and his blue eyes sparkled playfully. She propped herself up on her elbows as her gaze softened watching him. Grissom slid his palms along her calves, enjoying himself.

“Honey, you are about ninety-seven percent legs,” came his delighted observation.

Sara let her toes touch his nose.“Statistically true. And YOU are still one hundred percent dressed, Teach.”

Grissom lightly shifted her limbs to one side of him and rested his hands on his hips. “I may need a helper," he rumbled, making Sara stifle a giggle at his semi-serious tone. Grissom took his role playing seriously and often held out far longer than she could.

She raised a hand. “Pick me, pick me!”

“Miss Sidle, I believe it’s your turn to come to the head of the class—"

At his use of the word ‘head’ she dropped her gaze to his fly. He cleared his throat suggestively and Sara shifted herself around, struggling a little with her bound knees but managing to reach for his fly. She felt a bit like a beached mermaid as she leaned on her elbows and tugged at the tab drawing it down with difficulty over the prominent ridge.

“Whooo! Show and tell!” she crowed as his erection surged happily towards her.

Grissom choked a laugh as she impatiently pushed his trousers and boxers down. “And I brought enough for everybody,” he dimpled.

Then Sara licked the broad plum colored head of his cock and he grunted, swaying forward a little in quick response. She purred and did it again, pleased at the flavor of him on her tongue, the musk that made her pulse race. With delight, she pushed her mouth onto him, keeping enough slick tension to make Grissom groan softly. One big hand dropped to her shoulder, the other slid under her chin.

“N-not too much," he warned with a forced smile. Sara tasted the heat of him and knew; after a few minutes of slow sucking she reluctantly pulled away and used his hips to pull herself up on her bound knees as her breasts brushed his midriff. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, tongue sliding deep and determinedly into her mouth.

“I love a student who pays lip service," he whispered playfully. Sara moaned in agreement, feeling his cock rubbing her stomach. Grissom reached down and picked her up from the mattress, making her gasp; she kept forgetting how strong he actually was.

He rubbed noses with her. “I’m going to be behind you all the way, Miss Sidle.”

Before she could figure that out, he ever so gently bounced her on the mattress, face down and Sara felt a few pillows tucked under her hips. This brought her ass up in the air, and she strove to look over her shoulders in surprise. Grissom slid a hand in the soft space between her thighs and bottom, wedging his big palm against the lovely fur and slick folds of her sex. Sara shuddered with pleasure, gripping the sheets.

He shifted his hand slightly.“Positive strokes," he smiled, leaning down and rubbing again. His palm cupped her firmly; Sara gave a sweet little gasp.

“Ohhhhhhhh!” the even pressure and heat of his trapped hand was amazing. Sara tried to spread her thighs wider but the ribbon held, and she swallowed hard at the insidious restraint. He rubbed again.

“I believe in rubbing a student the right way, Miss Sidle. I think you do too—is this getting your attention?”

And how, Sara groaned to herself. She arched her back, shoving herself against his hand aware of what a lewd image she probably was making. Grissom bent down, and—

\--nipped her left cheek, HARD. Sara jumped as his fingers very lightly tweaked her bud between them. Then the scrape of his beard on her ass moved to the other cheek.

“An apple for the teacher."

“Please--!” Sara pleaded, grinding against his hand.

“Yes—I think we’ve played long enough," he agreed thickly, pulling his hand back. Sara whimpered at the loss. He shifted behind her, and she heard the soft tear of foil. Within a few seconds, the hot welcome press of his cock slid where his hand had been; Sara dropped her shoulders to the mattress, hissing in pleasure.

“Please,please,please," she gasped. With one slow glide Grissom thrust himself into her pillowy folds, groaning low in his throat. Sara echoed it, and sobbing with pleasure at the feel of him deep within her again.

“So good. I want it, Please, hard!"

He was slow, and tender, moving in deep deliberate strokes that pulsated pleasure through her entire frame, and when after a while she thought she would go insane with his purposeful pace, he slid a hand around her hip and between her thighs to touch the swollen little button buried in her fur.

Sara came, hard and loud, sobbing joyously, and barely a few heartbeats after her, Grissom’s pleasure erupted deep within her as well as he collapsed across her sweat-dampened back.

*** *** ***

“And she never did figure it out, although I did have to replace the banana and the battery,” Grissom sighed. They were lying in the semi-darkness, cuddled together. The bedside clock read nine thirty, but neither was in a hurry to get ready for work, not just yet. Sara was playing with the ribbon, knotting and unknotting it while Grissom caught her up on events. He looked over and smiled at her.

“Sara," he began, “I’ve been thinking.”

“You do that sometimes,” she agreed, playfully. He smiled briefly and continued. “About you, and me, and the weekends.”

She bit her lip as a needle of fear stabbed her heart, but seeing it, Grissom shook his head.

“Do you think—you could maybe handle—a little bit more?”

In the pause, Sara looked over at him and brushed the tousled hair from her face. “Define your terms, Grissom.”

“Well, instead of a weekend, maybe, possibly—a week. Or two—"

She simply stared at him, surprised and inwardly thrilled at his suggestion, but too smart to show it right away. She managed a crooked grin instead.

“We’re already crossing the line by being here on a Wednesday, you know.”

“It felt right.”

“Yes it did. Does," she agreed.

Another companionable pause circled the room, and pleased, Grissom smiled up at the ceiling. He sent one foot out to touch Sara’s under the sheet; she nudged back.

“So?”

“So."

“Do you want to?”

“Only on one condition.”

“Anything," he smiled.

And then she told him.

 

He stiffened, cocking his head, unsure if he’d heard her correctly and fearing deep down that he had. Sara looked more than nervous, but one of her many charms was impulsive persistence, and it kicked in as she repeated herself in a low slightly croaky tone.

“I said I want to tie YOU up, Gil.”

His first overwhelming reaction was to snap at her, to remind her of the ground rules they’d agreed to, but he bit down his words knowing full well they were borne of panic, not anger.

Shifting up on one elbow, Sara studied his wary face and her expression saddened when he let out a quick sigh.

“You know, it’s good to _want_ things," he weakly replied, echoing one of his mother’s favorite retorts. She managed a sickly smile of clear disappointment.

That expression hurt, and Grissom flinched a little. “Sara," he gripped her arm. She stared down at his hand; he softened his hold instantly, ashamed of himself. 

Sara’s mouth twitched; she looked up, not quite meeting his eyes. “So that’s pretty much it, isn’t it? No maybes or possiblys here, just—no.”

“I didn’t say no,” Grissom countered defensively, hating his petulant tone. Forcing himself to use a more reasonable voice he continued. “Sorry, you took me by surprise. I thought things were . . . good . . . between us.”

Better than good, he privately thought with a mingled rush of lustful adoration he hoped she could see in his eyes.

Sara flashed him her gentle smile, the tentative one that Grissom knew meant she was conflicted.

“Things ARE good. God, what you do to me from the minute you walk into a room—hey, in that regard, everything’s pretty damn wonderful, Gris. Don’t ever doubt it.”

A pause lingered in the conversation, widening the chasm between them. Grissom thinned his dry lips, feeling slightly helpless. He smoothed a hand over the sheet draped on his hip. “Then why change it? What . . . what’s not right, Sara?”

She looked away and then back at him, chin high. “Do you love me?”

He reached for her, but Sara shook her head and Gris hung back, eyes locked on hers.

“You know I do, Sara. Deeply.”

“Do you respect me?”

“Of course I do. You’re intelligent, hard-working and compassionate,” he responded quickly, wondering where this was going. The corner of her mouth quirked up; she fingered the ribbon lying on her bare stomach.

“Now here’s the crux of the matter: do you trust me?”

He began to respond, but Sara rolled over and pressed her fingers over his mouth, cutting off his words. “You said you did from the first night we made love, Grissom, but that trust was that I’d accept that framework you needed for intimacy. You’ve earned mine, and we’ve had a hell of a wonderful time with it. But . . ."

“But?”

“But now, I deserve YOUR trust. Because wonderful as it is to climb into bed with you, I’m NOT an equal partner most of the time. I’m the woman you do things TO, not with. I want . . ."

“—More,” he finished, bleakly. Sara looked close to tears, but she nodded hard.

“Exactly. If you want us to stay here together for longer than our weekends, I need parity, Gris. I need to be your partner, not just your pet.”

He closed his eyes and let strange prickly emotions roil around in his chest and stomach. The negative ones surfaced first; the anger and frustration. And under them—

Cold, inky fear. A tingly sensation, like biting on tin foil or an icy wind down the bare spine. Grissom’s muscles tightened and he balled the sheet in his palm.

This fear had nothing to do with reality; this wasn’t fear of Paul Millander or impending deafness or phone calls from hospitals. This was a darker, primal, ocean at night sort of unreasoning fear.

“Equality. Haven’t I given you that? Autonomy in this relationship? Freedom to come and go, to be yourself?” he whispered desperately.

Sara held back from touching him; the hardest thing she’d ever managed to do. Grissom looked utterly lost as he waited for her to say something.

“You have, and all of those things are amazingly precious, Gil. I’ve never loved or been loved to this degree in my life, which is why it’s killing me to do this.”

“Do this?” he echoed, striving for understanding and not quite reaching it. Sara bit her lip.

“Make a point here. I love you. That isn’t going to change, Grissom—not now, not ever.”

Her declaration seemed to soothe him somewhat; he rolled over to face her and they mirrored each other, both with a hand propping up their heads.

“I don’t understand then. Why does it have to come down to this? I love you too. I want to keep things as they are, but more OF it—stay here with you through the week instead of keeping up this ridiculous façade, this semi-relationship.”

Sara nearly gave in at his bewildered tone, but instead picked up the wrinkled ribbon and draped it over his warm bare shoulder. “You need time to get used to the idea, I know, but we can’t go forward without some change, babe. And giving me that moment to dominate you is . . . symbolic. A big step towards thinking of us as a partnership instead of just a weekend fling.”

He mulled that over quietly, his fine mouth pursing for a moment, then he sighed. Very gently, as if embarrassed, as if sharing a humiliating secret he leaned closer to her ear. Sara smelled the sweet after-fragrance of their lovemaking on his cheek as he whispered, “I’m afraid, acushla.”

She pulled back to look into his eyes and saw no humor, no sarcasm, just a wary hint of fear in the clear blue irises. 

She fought off a smile. “I’d NEVER hurt you!" Sara rushed to reassure him, but Grissom shook his head impatiently.

“Not of you. You don’t GET it," he blurted, and Sara’s insight hit her heart and stomach in the same blinding rush of chill. She froze and he swallowed hard. “—Of me. I’m afraid of myself.”

Those quiet lonely words hit her hard; Sara slid her long arms around him to pull his unresisting body against hers. She held him and gradually he relaxed.

Grissom finally spoke again, urgently, his lips against the satiny skin of her shoulder. “It’s control, Sara. I need control because I’m afraid to be without it. My life, my work, my personality; all of those are directed and channeled and tightly maintained for my own good. Even us, this relationship—the issue’s always been around control. We both know that.”

“Shhhh," she soothed, stroking the back of his head and trying to sound calm. Grissom gave a self-deprecating snort.

“Years of conditioning--this isn’t something I can change overnight, honey.”

She smiled into his hair even though a nagging sense of worry rose up in her like a fever. “Not asking you to—we’ve got two days until the next weekend, Gil. If it happens, we can stay. And if it doesn’t—well, we’ll have the next weekend, right?”

He pulled away to study her face. “To try again?”

She shook her head sweetly.

“To keep the status quo--Jesus, I’m not about to end things just because the next step’s a hard one—what kind of lover do you take me for?”

Grissom swallowed hard, then pulled her into a quick kiss.

He sighed, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got work.”

“Work is good,”she agreed.

As Grissom watched her slide out of the bed, he pursed his mouth and wondered if he could handle the next forty eight hours.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sara appreciated the quiet welcome home from Nick and Warrick, the light quick hug from Catherine. Even Greg gave her a smile and a wave through the glass of his station as she passed by. When she joined the rest of the crew in the break room Grissom was handing out assignments; he glanced up at her briefly.

“And since it’s already near the end of October, I don’t need to remind you that we’ll be getting a rush on vandalism and costumed assaults around Halloween. Tonight we’ve got a break-in at a bakery—Nick, Sara, you’re on it.”

“Someone robbed a bakery?” Nick shot Grissom an incredulous look. Sara nudged him.

“Maybe they kneaded the dough."

Warrick winced, good-naturedly; Catherine groaned.

“Fun-nee, Sara.” Nick grumbled, taking the slip from Grissom.

“Warrick, you’re testifying in that arson case, so you’re off the hook. Catherine and I have the shoe store robbery. Everybody clear?”

His tone was calm and Sara respected the return to normalcy it provided. She glanced over at Nick and smiled teasingly. “After you—bread man walkin’.”

Nick shook his head in aggravation, leading the two of them down the hall and out to the parking lot. Warrick pushed himself out of his lounge against the doorframe and ran an exploratory hand over his chin.

“Guess I’ll shave before I go to the courthouse," he grumbled. 

Grissom nodded. “If it’s Judge Benton, she’ll take you more seriously if you do. Catherine?”

“Good to go,” she replied.

*** *** ***

Ramplings was a tiny shoe store set just off a busy corner near the Atlantis casino; despite its small size, the displays were exquisite and the prices, astronomical. Catherine sighed gustily as she studied a crystal pillar in the front window which was topped with a pair of gleaming silver and gemstone encrusted shoes.

“Dear God, Astrabellas! Nothing like a seven hundred dollar pair of stilettos to make you reconsider consumerism.”

Grissom stared at the delicate high heels, appalled. They were pretty, yes, and he knew they’d set off Sara’s charms to sweet fuckable perfection, but seven hundred dollars—

“That’s not footwear, it’s an investment,” he announced.

Catherine, who was examining a satin lined display case, nodded.“Exactly. High heels for the well heeled. A sugar daddy’s present for his baby doll.”

“Where would she wear them?” Grissom wondered out loud; the answer came to him just as Catherine snorted.

“Honestly Gil, you’re SO naïve sometimes!"

He hid his smirk at her assessment and shifted the sweep of his glance to the display counter.“Now, now, that’s a little judgmental,” came his mumble.

Catherine shot him an exasperated look. “I think when it comes to undressing for success I may know what I’m talking about. Shoes like these aren’t accessories except to seduction, Gil.”

“Double action pumps," he quipped back, making Catherine stifle a laugh. For a while after that they said nothing more, making a swift efficient study of the break in. As Catherine dusted the glass counter for prints, Grissom scanned the carpet around the doorway, his thoughts miles away from the case at hand.

He fretted, although he figured he was hiding it well. Catherine wasn’t as adept at reading his mood these days, not like Sara of course. And thoughts of HER circled around his mind, along with her request. It was an obsessive mental mobius loop he couldn’t seem to escape for very long.

Grissom cursed himself for not seeing it coming, for not realizing that Sara would want more than the bottom in everything she committed herself to. It was her way, every time. The gorilla corpse had been a prime example of that above and beyond drive of hers, that need to take things over a comfort zone.

He bit back a sigh that threatened to become a smirk, knowing full well that Sara’s enthusiasm was often its own reward. She’d blossomed, become a lovely dynamo of passionate responses, and he knew a part of that was his mentoring. Grissom cherished the fact that she genuinely loved following his lead, playing along with him, teasing him, expressing her own brand of sexuality in oh so many delightful ways.

It was good. So damn good.

Fighting the growing erection he was now sporting, Grissom shifted and called over his shoulder. “I’ll check the back door."

“Might as well, but I’m betting you won’t find anything. This was strictly a grab and run, and the only reason we’re here is the insurance company,” Catherine told him absently. He shrugged and walked down the carpeted store past the glittering display cases to the back door. Once there, he looked down and frowned at spots on the carpet. Carefully he pulled out a swab and dabbed at one.

The real problem wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sara, he mused. He trusted her. Implicitly, when it came down to it. Sara owned him, heart and balls and everything else he could share outside of his soul. No, the problem lay within himself, he knew. That hard core of inner beast hadn’t been breeched in—well, a hell of a long time, he admitted with a grimace.

Not for decades, Grissom grimly prided himself. Not since that bleak day nearly thirty years ago when the strain had twisted him so hard that he could almost feel the cracks along his skull.

The long pressures of his overloaded schedule had been nothing compared to walking in on the OD suicide of his roommate Paul and his girlfriend Betsey. Finding them in their gory stiffness on HIS bed. Calling the police, being questioned for hours. Being released too late to make his Chemistry final and having to take the F. Then the mother of all migraines; Grissom remembered the agony that made him claw chunks of plaster out of the wall near the sofa and damning Paul for using all of the prescription to kill himself. The rain leaking in and ruining two months of Western Civ notes. The sound of some asshole playing a KISS album so loudly that the entire building thrummed with the bass--

Grissom remembered the baseball bat, and very little else except a satisfied exhaustion afterwards. He remembered waking up hours later and looking around at the consequences of his animalistic fury: the entire apartment lay in ruins, every wall bearing holes, every piece of furniture destroyed.

Gil recalled the intensity and white-hot focus of that ancient rampage searing through his senses and momentarily obliterating all traces of reason or sanity or civility. He kept that memory close, and like Dorian’s portrait used it to hold himself in check. Over the years that self-control had hardened, forming a frame around his personality—voluntary confinement as it were.

His capacity for rage still frightened him.

Grissom noted more stains along the doorframe, swabbed them as well, and then leaned forward to sniff one.“Cath, I think our perp might have dye on her hands.”

Catherine sauntered over and looked at the indicated stains, frowning thoughtfully. “Dye would mean he’d been either around the counter, or in the back room—but that’s not where the money is, so why go there?”

For a moment they both looked at the door, then Grissom spoke up.“Shoes. She was after the merchandise, not the money.”

“She?” Catherine asked, but it was a formality; the stains on the door were at the two and a half foot mark, indicating a short suspect, logically a woman.

Grissom nodded. “Did the owner report anything missing from the inventory?”

“I’ll check," Catherine mused, walking off and fishing out her cell phone. Grissom turned to the back room and let his glance take in the repair table.

He didn’t rage these days, but some of his intimate sessions with Sara definitely came close. Something about driving her to the brink of passion would thin out his control and he’d find himself acting on sheer alpha male instinct, responding to the flavor of her skin, her kiss, her silky warm pussy. The glorious release in taking Sara gentle OR hard still made him shiver, and the memory of it fueled the constant hunger for the next time.

“Owner says the only thing she KNOWS is missing was the money from the till, but since she wasn’t actually here today suggests we check with the two clerks. You’re thinking the robbery was a diversion?”

“Possibly. A place like this doesn’t handle cash transactions—most of these shoe purchases would be by charge or check, so the till was barely two hundred. A smart thief would go for the merchandise—portable, small, easy to hide.”

“And easily disposed of. But the dye?”

“Grabbed a pair from the bench here, maybe a last minute choice," Grissom hypothesized. Catherine nodded slowly as they both stared at the heavily stained linoleum countertop.

“Sort of a Cinderella in reverse," he added.

*** *** ***

“No cracks about buns of any kind,” Nick warned. The warm yeasty scent of Panini’s Bakery washed over them as they stepped in and under the barrier tape. Sara gave a shrug and Nick eyed her suspiciously.

“It’s not like you to give in so easily," he pointed out.

She smiled. “Hey, no bun jokes—but everything else, from bagels to baguettes to brioches are fair game, Nick.” She warned. He gave a long-suffering sigh, but his gentle smile reassured her and they got to work.

Sara let her thoughts wander as she meticulously dusted the doorframe, trying to analyze her current mood of trepidation. Taking it apart piece by piece might help dissolve it, or at the very least give her a clue on dealing with it.

She wasn’t afraid of Grissom. Despite his physical size and strength, she’d always felt secure with him, cherished in fact. Sure she’d gotten bruised a few times, ended up sore, usually in places that didn’t show, thank God, but those were incidental, never deliberate.

So why the tingle of apprehension in her now, she wondered.

Fear, she knew, was contagious and Grissom’s permeated her bravado. She didn’t doubt it was genuine; his expression still haunted her. Even now she debated holding him to the deal, but her pride won out every time.

“Empty register, spilled change, some footprints behind the counter," Nick dutifully reported. “We may be . . ."

“On a roll?” Sara supplied.

He scowled at her. “In luck,” he finished, shaking a latex covered finger at her. “Warned you about the jokes, Sara.”

“Nick, come on, lighten up—I’m just trying to get a rise out of you."

“Aw, quit trying to butter me up,” he gave in with a grin, reaching for his kit. Sara moved to the back of the bakery, walking carefully between the rolling racks of bread, still lost in thought.

She wished she were better at sex. The mechanics were easy enough; Sara knew her fair share of positions and understood the sequence of foreplay and rising action to climax and post-coital sleep. No, the weak element in her experience was the emotional one. Lust had been her primary drive with lovers before Grissom, and it was a frame of mind that burned out easily without other emotions. But with Gil—

From the first time she’d glanced into those big blue eyes she’d felt a giddy sensual tickle that started in her stomach and kept shifting lower. His quick smile and flat Midwest accent charmed her, and Sara knew she’d fantasize about him the next time she had her hand between her thighs.

The lust was there, but infused with so many other amazing elements she never knew a man could bring out in her: tenderness, amusement, awe, confusion and frustration. Every time she thought she had Gil Grissom figured out some other facet of him emerged, keeping her on edge.

And then the whole dominance and submission aspect blossomed.

That hadn’t been a total surprise, but her response to it had been, Sara admitted to herself. No hesitation, no second thoughts about giving in to his rules. She wondered if that made her either desperate or a slut somehow, but it didn’t matter, not when the end results were so incendiary. Between the sheets and her thighs, Grissom was big, rawboned and magnificent.

With a squirm of embarrassment at her sudden arousal, Sara swung her flashlight around and caught a glimpse of a paw sticking out from under a low cabinet. Cautiously she squatted down and let the beam travel up to touch the face of the shivering puppy huddled there.

“Hey Nick," she called, “How do you feel about bagel dogs?”

*** *** ***

Grissom drove slowly, aware of his destination but not in a hurry to get there. Catherine was delivering the dye samples to the lab, and until Brass picked up the clerks for questioning there was little else to do. He took a side street and managed to find a parking place just beyond the shop he needed. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the steering wheel tightly for a moment, his eyes shut, his teeth clenched.

“For Sara,” he reminded himself sternly.

Climbing out, he glanced down the street. A liquor store, a pizza place, and beyond that—Sin City. The shop’s window glowed with pink neon lights; Grissom pushed the door open, well familiar with the recorded whip crack that acted as a doorbell.

It was small but organized, and the stout little clerk behind the counter brightened at the sight of him.

“Doc Grissom!”

“Skipper,” he acknowledged. Out of a sense of whimsy and security, all the clerks at Sin City went by character names from Gilligan’s Island. Skipper looked like his namesake, round and jovial, although the eyebrow piercings and long braided goatee were his own style.

“Need more liquid latex?” he asked cheerfully, pulling up an order pad. 

Grissom nodded.“Another bottle wouldn’t hurt. I’m actually working on a wrist ligature comparison, so I need to look over your bondage stock.”

“No problem," Skipper nodded agreeably, pushing over a desk copy of a catalog. Grissom flipped through the pages to the middle of the book. The collection was impressive, and he paused at the considerable options available.

“How many of these do you generally have in stock?”

“Most of them—only the fuzzies are a custom order because of the different animal print fabric. But the three basics: neoprene, leather and Velcro we’ve got.” Skipper paused and shot Grissom a perplexed look. “Cuffs don’t LEAVE ligature marks, Doc. That’s the point of using the right equipment.”

“True, but some abrading can occur with any restraint, and right now I’m still compiling a database for comparison,” Grissom countered smoothly.

Skipper grinned, impressed. His skull and crossbones pen hovered over the order pad. “Fair enough,—what can I stick on the crime lab PO tonight?”

“Latex, two bottles, no particular color. One set of each of the cuffs on page two twelve—all standard size. Does Ginger still carry the plaster mold kits?”

“Yeah, we still have a few—should I add them in?”

“Yes,” Grissom nodded. He waited patiently while Skipper put the order together, trying to ignore the other customers browsing the aisles behind him. When the clerk returned, Grissom handed over his Visa with a sigh, and Skipper laughed.

“Reimbursement from General Funds again?”

“You know how it is when Billing is four to six weeks behind pressing need.”

“Totally—we run into that every time there’s a Trek convention in town,” the clerk laughed.

Out in the car, Grissom set the bag on the passenger seat and tried to ignore it. He drove back to his townhouse and carried it in along with his mail and the newspaper, then left all of them on the table as he went to the kitchen.

One tarragon chicken sandwich and beer later, after the bills were sorted and paid, after his daily crossword was done, he grudgingly reached into the bag. Grissom left the plaster kits and latex in it, and withdrew the other three boxes cautiously, setting them down on the table. Carefully he examined each, reading the packages from end to end, weighing and judging.

The leather and Velcro went back into the bag. Grissom picked up the last box and carried it over to the sofa, setting it on the coffee table. Very slowly he opened it, dumping the cuffs out onto the surface, hearing the soft rattle of the links. He sighed.

The cuffs were blue and black, the neoprene padding thick and cushiony. They had a buckling strap around each like a miniature belt; a strong band of nylon webbing linked by metal rings joined them. Grissom brought them up to his scrutiny, studying them with the intensity he usually reserved for insects. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the cuffs this way and that, examining them.

They were flawless, and smelled new. He slowly unbuckled one and draped it around his left wrist; it encircled it easily, the feel of it as comfortable as a tennis sweat cuff. 

Grissom hesitated. “To fear love is to fear life . . . “ he quoted to himself in a rush, “And those who fear life are already three parts dead."

So saying, he swiftly threaded the tongue of the strap into its buckle and cinched it, locking the black and blue cuff around his wrist in a snug embrace. He lifted his arm, aware of a thin sweat along his temples, more in his palms.

Far more terrifying was the steel hard strain of his erection against his fly.

*** *** ***

The puppy processed well, holding still in Nick’s arms long enough to let Sara comb her for evidence, and take her paw prints, which matched the ones through the spilled flour along the main aisle in the back of the bakery.

“Hazard a guess?” Sara offered; Nick gave her a twisted smile.

“Our robbers left the back door open, and this little mooch seized a moment of opportunity to wander in and chow down. The lights probably scared her so she froze up under the racks.”

“Too bad we can’t question her about the suspects,” Sara chuckled.

Nick nodded, petting the pup, who gave a low gusty sigh. “I’d guess she’s about nine weeks old, some sort of terrier hound mix. She likes you.”

Suspecting another joke, Nick shot a sharp look at Sara, but she was smiling and petting the puppy herself.

“I get along well with dogs,” he agreed after a moment. He set the puppy down on the trace lab floor and she skittered on the linoleum, sniffing excitedly.

Catherine peeked in, grinning. “Brought in a suspect already?”

“Bystander, innocent despite the yeast on her breath,” Sara smiled. Nick was fighting to get his shoelaces free of the puppy’s interested nibble, and Catherine sighed.

“The shelter doesn’t open until seven, so who’s taking her home?”

“I’ll do it—my case, my canine,” Nick tried to grumble but both women shared a glance acknowledging his obvious delight.

“Fair enough. Just don’t lock her in Grissom’s office,” Catherine warned.

Nick shot her a questioning look even as the answer dawned on him.“Too many bones, right."

He sauntered off with puppy in his arms as Catherine and Sara watched him go.

“A boy and his dog,” Catherine murmured. “Odds?”

Sara shook her head.

“Oh he’s keeping her, no doubt about that. I got to hear the baby talk all the way back to the lab, if you count calling her a ‘bread chomping woofy girl’ as any way affectionate.”

They both laughed, and Catherine let it die away before shooting a sideways look at the other woman.

“Sara, have you noticed anything—different—with Grissom?”

Fighting a surge of panic, Sara slowly shook her head, “No . . ."

“Because I swear he seems . . . upbeat. I can’t really put my finger on it, but the last few months he’s been less of a grouch. Hope it lasts.”

She walked off, leaving Sara to smile crookedly and echo her words. “Yeah, hope it lasts . . .”

*** *** ***

Gibraltar Cliff was the color, officially although to Grissom brown was brown. The oil-based dye had left indelible traces on the fingers of former Rampling’s clerk Trudy DeVries, and the Astrabellas were in the evidence locker awaiting their day in court. Grissom took faint satisfaction in closing the case as he checked his watch. Close to six AM and the weekend.

He finished piling his files on his desk and slowly locked up, taking his time. Part of him did so out of careful habit, the other out of deliberation. Making a choice and putting it into action were two different things; Grissom gave himself time to appreciate that difference. As he turned, he caught sight of Sara coming down the hall towards him; her steps faltered and she seemed reluctant to meet his eyes.

“Grissom."

“Sara.”

She finally dared a glance and he lost himself in the rich, deep mahogany of her eyes. After a few moments Sara smiled self-consciously.

“So . . .” she began awkwardly, shoving her hands into her back pockets. Grissom smelled the slight hint of apprehension on her, the barest kiss of fear, and it brought forth a responding surge of heat in the pit of his stomach.

“So. I hear Nick has a new roommate.”

“Uh, yeah. I think he’s planning on calling her Bagel,” she replied, searching his face.

He nodded. “Every kid should have a dog . . . Nick must be getting a late start.”

At that Sara smiled, the slow grin bringing her face into a lovely bloom of good humor. Grissom drew in a small breath.

“Time to go home, Sara. Both of us.”

And at that, her smile became luminous.

*** *** ***

Sara’s hand shook badly; Grissom laid his over hers to steady it as she lit the candles on the nightstand. She sighed, relaxing as his warmth seeped into her cold fingers. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Grissom didn’t let go as she shook the match out. Instead he gave her hand a slow squeeze.

“We can’t _both_ be nervous. That’s counterproductive,” he announced, but lightly. It worked and she grinned at him, dropping a kiss along his hairline when she leaned over to drop the matchstick in the small trash can.

“I’ll have to be all secretive and commanding, like Lady Heather.”

Grissom shook his head and she caught the briefest hint of sorrow in his expression as he turned to look at her, the candlelight making his profile shadowy.

“You’re the ULTIMATE seductive mystery, Sara. Unrehearsed. Cool and poised, passionately deep. In a single heartbeat you’re a woman of drives I’ll never understand.”

Sara shivered as his words flowed over her. She nodded. In one swift gesture she reached for his shirtfront, gripping the fabric in two big handfuls. Sara tugged sharply; Grissom swayed towards her, his eyes widening with surprise and amusement.

“Shhhhh—“ she told him, her voice shaky but gaining confidence, “Tonight’s MY show. You don’t get to do the seducing, not even with words, Grissom.”

Something in her desperate little growl let him know she was serious and he nodded gently. Sara smiled briefly at his acceptance and worked her fingers towards the buttons of his shirt, plucking them open one by one.

“The cool and calm Gil Grissom. Neat and tidy, rarely fazed by anything. You have no idea how infuriatingly sexy that is, do you? “

He started to speak then realized it was a rhetorical question by the shake of her head. Sara tugged the shirt open and let her gaze cross his exposed chest as one finger circled a brown rivet of a nipple. She let a laugh bubble up from her throat, a nervous excited sound.

“All the good stuff gets hidden under cotton and khaki and knits. All that muscle. You’re strong, babe. “

He blinked, flattered by her words, but realistic enough to grin a little too. Sara shook her head at his expression and a little gleam flared in her eyes. With one hand she lifted his chin high, commanding,

“Look up, waaaaay up—“

He complied a little uncertainly, and she scooted closer, pressing her mouth on the thin sensitive skin of his throat.

Grissom shivered under her kiss, so hot and wet against his flesh. Sara’s words were slightly muffled, and her hands were busy pushing the shirt off his shoulders.

“I love the salt on your skin. I love the roughness of your bristles. I love feeling your nervousness," came her low purr. He fought to keep his hands at his sides, and marveled at how arousing it was just to sit on the edge of the bed and let Sara touch him.

She slid to her knees and wormed her way between his knees impatiently, reaching for his belt buckle, tossing her hair out of her eyes as she did so. Grissom watched her intently, aware of the gleam of her hair, the soft feminine line of her arms. He fought off a wave of dizziness as his body ached for her.

“Up,” Sara muttered, tugging his pants down, her concentration adorable. He lifted his hips enough for her to finish undressing him fairly quickly. Sara impatiently set the clothing aside and stayed between his knees, her hands on his thighs.

“Gawd . . .” it was said with as much reverence as amusement, and Grissom felt her palms slide along his bare skin. He drew in a sharp breath.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, bringing her face close to the thick rosy shaft of his thickening cock. Grissom’s hands rested on the mattress on either side of his hips and he clenched them reflexively, but Sara flashed a smile up at him, a look of such soft love and awe that he had to smile back. Her hands shifted, encircling his girth, gently caressing him.

“Fess up, Grissom—did you ever name it?”

He arched an eyebrow at her, but it was nearly impossible not to smirk, his dimples deep in the candlelight.

“No. I’ve never felt the need to call any part of my body anything other than what it is.”

“Now THAT is so typical Grissom,” Sara grinned at him with loving amusement as her long fingers slid around the satiny steel of his shaft. He bit back a groan of pleasure at her tender touch, his hands shifting towards her.

Sara frowned at them and he froze in a moment of awkward surprise at the fierce expression. She rose up to stand between his bare knees, trembling a little, but trying hard to look serious.

“Not your turn here,” she reminded him. Grissom looked up, and Sara bit back a sigh at the sight of him in the candlelight. His iron grey curls, the sweep of his dark lashes, the strong masculine beauty of his face half in and out of the shadows—

“I know. It’s difficult not to—touch,” he sighed softly, no trace of a smile on his mouth, and for a moment she wanted so badly to give in, to simply roll over on the quilt and drag him on top of her the way they had so many times before. As she opened her mouth though, he cocked his head and thinned his lips.

“I took the liberty of getting . . . “ he let his gaze shift to the pillows, and that little gesture was enough to pique her curiosity. Sara gave him a puzzled look. He patiently looked back. Carefully, she leaned over and slid a hand under the cool cotton of the pillows, touching something under it.

Sara pulled the cuffs out and stared at them, her face flushing a little in surprise. Grissom watched her carefully, not moving a muscle as she turned the neoprene restraints over in her hands, looking at them as closely as he had. She shot him a grin through the center of one cuff.

“You take this ‘hoist on your own petard’ thing pretty seriously, don’t you?”

“Sara—I’m three inches taller and eighty pounds heavier and I don’t want to hurt you. Better safe than sorry.”

His words brought a shiver to her skin, and at first he thought it was fear. It was only as they continued staring at each other that he realized she was—

\--Excited.

Sara’s espresso eyes glittered, and her sweet mouth puckered in a naughty smile so enticing he felt the surge of wild desire run down his spine and straight up the length of his cock, stiffening it. She looked down to where it pressed against her thigh eagerly.

“Let’s play a game,” she sighed. Leaning down, she moved closer, forcing him back onto the quilt, looming over his body as he lay back, eyes locked on hers.

“It’s called Grissom on the Bottom. Will you play that with me?”

Sara’s kiss was hovering over his open mouth, her lips barely touching his, teasing with a slow sweetness that made him swallow hard.

“. . . Yes . . .” he whispered faintly.

And then she kissed him, a delicate brush of lips back and forth over his. Her hair swept against his cheeks and neck, and he drank in the soft scent of her.

“Scoot up and lie down. I’m new at this," she laughed softly against his mouth. Obligingly, Grissom broke away from her spell long enough to comply, stunned at how quickly Sara had managed to captivate him. His body thrummed with tension, and he could feel a tightness behind his balls that made him restless.

“Arms up."

He gritted his teeth. For a moment he hesitated, blinking up at Sara as she watched the struggle in his face. She bit her lower lip, and that sad little gesture was enough; Grissom reluctantly extended his arms over his head and towards the headboard without a word. Sara nodded.

She slipped the first cuff around his left wrist and cinched it firmly, hiding a smile as her chest pressed against Gil’s face as she did so. Carefully she looped the second cuff under the spool railing and brought it around his right wrist. Under her she felt his big frame stiffen again.

“Shhhhh . . ." soothing him with a calm she didn’t exactly feel herself, Sara quickly locked up the second cuff around his big wrist. She looked down at him.

Grissom’s eyes were huge and blue, teetering on the edge of panic as he gritted his teeth and fisted his broad hands. Sara stroked the sides of his face gently, cupping the beard against her palms.

“Hey Sexy,” she murmured, straddling his waist, “Let’s be friends.”

“—Friends?” he warily managed to reply through his teeth. Sara’s smile widened.

“Very GOOD . . . friends . . .” she confirmed, running a finger over his parted lips. She kept her weight on her knees and shifted her hands to her tank top, reveling in his full attention. With a slinky tug, she pulled the shirt off and twirled it clumsily in one hand, but Grissom’s gaze followed her gesture with flattering intensity and she felt the ridge of his cock stiffen further under the swell of her ass in response to her half-nudity.

“Yesss,” he replied in a hoarse little whisper. Sara slid her hands over her breasts, cupping them in a sweetly sultry move that felt as good as she suspected it looked. Under her, Grissom’s eyelids fluttered as he desperately tried to compose himself.

“Yes what?”

“Let’s BE . . . very good friends,” he responded in a chuff of frustration, tugging on the cuffs. Sara toyed with her chest a few moments longer, adding a wriggle of her hips, the denim rubbing against Grissom’s stomach. He tensed.

“Sara!” it was both a plea and a warning; she languidly stretched out on him, well aware he could bear her weight easily, that the lovely press of his heated skin was addictive in its own right. Flesh to flesh, her chest on his was enough to make both of them groan. Aching desire pulsed hard between them, almost palpable; Sara shimmied against Grissom’s supine body, grinding her hips against his in a happy frenzy as she stared into his glacier blue eyes.

“I like this," she breathed in his ear, “--making out—“

His only answer was his deepened breathing. Under her lithe frame his body flexed, strong, big, powerful in the candlelight. Sara felt a whimper build in her throat when she realized Grissom was whispering to her.

“This is—hard. So very hard . . .”

“Not for long,” she promised, kissing him lushly, her tongue slickly sweeping over his to end his protests. He relaxed a tiny bit; Sara rose off of him to catch her breath and pull her jeans off. Grissom turned his head to watch her undress. She stepped out of her dropped clothing and slid back onto the bed, centering herself over his legs somewhat clumsily, her attention focused on his hips.

And what rose between them.

“You," she accused with a choked laugh, “Are an impressive sight, Gil Grissom.”

He paused a moment, trying to regain a sense of equilibrium, and replied thickly, “Genetics. Testosterone. Excessive masturbation."

Sara slid her hands around the heavy shaft, feeling its heat against her cool palms. Grissom groaned, and gave a tug of protest on his cuffs as she stroked.

“Really? And how long has THAT been going on?” came her soft question.

“Since I met you,” came a familiar reply; Sara looked around the pillar of his cock and found Grissom faintly smiling down at her.

“At least the excessive part.”

“Oh you are SO gonna get laid for saying that," she snorted, tightening her grip, finding a rhythm that made him shiver and swallow hard. He thrust up, his thighs pinned under her weight even as his cock surged through her fingers. Sara purred her delight, caressing the ridges and veins along its length, appreciating the masculine power and beauty of it in the golden light. Dropping her face she rubbed her nose against the crinkly fur around it, breathing in the warm rich musk of Grissom’s sexuality. He groaned softly again.

“Ssaraaa . . .” his tone while still urgent was also lower. Sara heard the hint of alarm in it and responded gently, her hands stroking his abdomen in soothing sweeps as she lightly kissed the underside of his cock.

“Shhhhh," with slow care, she lapped delicately at the heart shaped head, tongue curling to catch the glittering drops leaking from it. Grissom gave a tiny shudder and it rippled through his heavy frame. Sara licked more firmly, gratified to hear his breathing speed up a bit.

“I can’t . . ." came Grissom’s soft plea as the headboard creaked a bit. “Can’t take much of this!"

“You can take plenty, babe. You’re mine tonight, every infuriating inch, so deal with it," Sara chided. His growl of protest faded away to a desperate hiss as she slid her mouth over his cock and suckled lusciously. The throb of him on her tongue sent fireballs rocketing down her stomach; Sara could feel hot tension between her thighs, pulsating hard.

Leisurely she stroked him in her mouth, easing off the pressure when he began to thrust himself upward, and then beginning again in a slow tease of slick pleasure. Grissom’s big chest grew damp, and Sara heard the frantic tug of the cuffs against the headboard as she took her pleasure in toying with him. His balls were too heavy for one hand to cradle, but she cupped them as best she could, earning his gasp of pleasure when she did so.

“Never . . . again,” came his threat. Grissom’s voice was tight, and his words tumbled out in a hard curiously flat tone as Sara let him slide wetly from between her lips. Throbbing and hot, his cock thumped against his stomach. She looked up at Gil’s face.

His pupils were so wide his eyes looked almost black in the candlelight, and his expression was a study in haunted pleasure as sweat rolled down his temples. She blew a light breath on his straining prick and it twitched hard, as if seeking her. Grissom groaned.

“What do you want, babe?” Sara demanded in her whisky tones.

“You KNOW what I want," he countered grimly.

Sara laughed. “Say it anyway, Grissom.”

“I want you. Right NOW.”

“On top?” she shifted, keeping her eyes on his, enjoying the power. The control. He swallowed again, eyes half-closing.

“All right, yes, Goddamn it!” he croaked, his chest heaving a bit even as his prick oozed onto his stomach.

Sara moved. She quickly rolled a condom on him, and with more speed than grace she straddled his hips, her knees alongside them. Carefully she reached down between her thighs for his cock with one hand and his chin with the other.

“Who do you belong to, Grissom?” she whispered, holding him against the folds of her sex. He tensed. The question hung between them, layered and heavy, full of promises and meanings; inescapable. Sara waited, feeling her pulse hammering in her ears, poised between fear and elation.

Grissom moved. His powerful hips jerked up, and his cock slid up through her grasp to drive deeply into the glistening folds of her sex, impaling her. Sara gasped, surprised, overwhelmed by his sensual strength as his thick shaft drove to the core of her.

“YOU, Sara! You always---uhhhnggg!” came his pleasured cry and she tensed, her body gripping him. The moment flashed into a blinding frenzy of muscle and sleek skin and soft sobbing moans as Sara rode his cock, all thoughts gone, lost in mindlessly wild passion. The arrogant heat of him, demanding and thick overwhelmed her; after a few strokes she felt the corkscrew of impending orgasm spiral up between her thighs, pebbling her nipples, flushing over her skin as she cried out joyously. The thick throbs within her pulsed in time with hers; Grissom’s body tensed hard and he groaned heavily.

“Mine, you’re Mmmmmminnnne--" she sobbed as the wave of pleasure washed over her and moved the world.

*** *** ***

Grissom studied his right wrist absently. His left arm held Sara’s slumbering form to his side, cradling her against him as the two of them lay together, the heat of their passion slowly dissipating through the sheets and quilt and pillows.

There were no marks, no abrasions anywhere on his skin even though he’d strained hard against the cuffs. He pursed his mouth thoughtfully and let his glance take in the unbuckled restraints sitting on the nightstand near the snuffed candles. Harmless looking, really—

“Hey—you’re stealing all the covers," came Sara’s mumble against his chest.

Grissom smiled against the top of her head, kissing her tousled hair. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. It takes some getting used to," her observation ended in a yawn.

“What does?”

“Sharing,” she replied softly. He tightened his grip in a quick hug making her laugh. Sara kissed his shoulder and watched his eyes as he paused, pulling together a comment.

“I . . . can learn. About sharing, if it’s with you.”

Sara tipped her head, a long strand of her hair brushing against his skin. Grissom gave a wordless sigh and reached over to tuck it back behind her ear. The tenderness of the gesture made her eyes fill and she blinked.

“Wow. Does this mean I might get to be on top more often?”

Grissom let the pause linger in the growing daylight that filled the bedroom. “We’ll . . . negotiate.”

“Um hum," Sara snuggled into his side, warm. Content.

“But the cuffs are going to the lab,” he added.

“Oh yeah, you say that NOW."

She laughed, her giggles wetly smothered against his ribcage, and he kissed her crown again, basking in a moment of perfect peace. 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Now we start getting into backstory and relationship issues. This was written before Sara's past was done on the show and I prefer the parents I created--both for Grissom and Sara-- over those in canon. That makes it the start of AU.


End file.
